


Electric Heart

by ryukoishida



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, capoeira instructor!Isfan, yoga student!Gieve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7271035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fated encounter that happens inside a local community center between Gieve, a devoted student of Farangis’ yoga class, and Isfan, a capoeira instructor who works there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Electric Heart

“Excuse me.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“This is the intermediate level power yoga class, right?”

 

“Oh, I guess you’re new?”

 

He isn’t but he has been absent for the last two weeks due to a work trip to London. He doesn’t feel the need to clarify, however, so he just allows the man to assume since he hasn’t given Gieve enough time to reply anyway.

 

“They switched the assignments of the studios a few weeks ago; I think the yoga class that originally took place here has been switched to one of the third-floor rooms. You should check with the front desk to make sure.”

 

The man, as Gieve observes with a quiet once-over, is wearing some sort of uniform that consists of loose white pants, a plain grey t-shirt, and a set of coloured cords – yellow and white – around his waist. The rest of the people milling about in the room are in more or less similar attires. If he had to guess, Gieve would say this is probably a tae-kwon-do class or something along those lines. He pictures, rather vividly with his over-active imagination, a burly, muscular man with a hairy chest that bulges from the opening of the white uniform yelling instructions from the front of the room with a vein close to popping.

 

He doesn’t want to stay long enough to confirm his suspicions; he just wants to leave.

 

“Thanks,” Gieve nods and begins to quickly make his way towards the only entryway that will take him out of the studio… Except not quickly enough because someone is strolling in – someone who’s at least a head taller than Gieve, and his outrageously broad shoulders and statuesque torso, clad only in a black tank-top, is blocking his view of the hallway, his haven – and Gieve is in the way.

 

“And where might you be going?” It would have sounded like an intimidating threat coming from anyone else, but Gieve catches the subtle hint of challenge underlying the man’s poised tone. He takes a careful, measured step back and glances up – curious sea-green on intense topaz-gold. Gieve murmurs a very, very bad word in his head.

 

He really should have left earlier when he had his chance. He really should have just checked with the front desk before he steps into this fucking mess, because this is exactly what it is: a beautiful fucking mess in the shape of a man with a sharp gaze that goes entirely too well with the stern but sensual line of his mouth, auburn hair tied back into a messy bun on top of his head, and the smooth, tanned skin and taut arm muscles that his tank-top is doing a great job displaying to the world.

 

This beautiful fucking mess has a name, which is stamped clearly on the staff identification card hanging around his neck: Isfan.

 

When Gieve doesn’t immediately reply, the other man lifts a brow in silent inquiry as he shifts his clipboard from one hand to the other, eyes expectant.

 

“Nowhere important now,” Gieve tells him, a smile crawling along his lips as he backs away further into the studio, where most of the students have quieted down and taken their positions on the floor when they see that their instructor has arrived.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Isfan nods once, a stray lock of hair falling to the side of his face with the motion, and there might have been a small smile before he turns away to continue walking to the front of the class, but Gieve might have imagined that, too.

 

“Oh, you’re back?” the man whom Gieve has talked to before comments lightly. “I thought you’re taking yoga.”

 

Gieve heaves a small, delighted sigh as he rolls his shoulders, testing their flexibility. His joints pop with a series of satisfying cracks. “Not anymore, my friend.”

 

“For any newcomers who are just joining us today via drop-in, this is Beginners Capoeira,” the man’s voice is not orotund, but it reverberates pleasantly within the close quarters of the studio, one side of which has a full-length mirror that stretches from one wall to the next.

 

‘So that’s what this is,’ Gieve considers doing a little research on this when he gets home later today, and then his attention snaps back to the brunet when he speaks again.

 

“My name’s Isfan and I’m the instructor for this class. If there are any questions or concerns, don’t hesitate to come and talk to me.”

 

His gaze lands on Gieve’s figure towards the center back of the room, and he pauses just for the briefest moment before he continues, “Also, just a reminder for those who plan to return: since our routines require a lot of vigorous leg and foot work, I’d suggest wearing something more appropriate next time.”

 

Everyone shifts their heads towards Gieve though they try to do so without being too obvious. It’s rude to stare after all, but Gieve, who’s wearing a soft, purple cotton t-shirt that stretches half a size too small across his slender but subtly powerful built and black yoga pants with green accents, stands out like a beacon within the sea of monotonous white and grey highlighted occasionally by the yellow or white roped belts around the students’ waists.

 

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Gieve grins, and though it seems like he’s addressing everyone, but the expression is clearly aimed at the stoic instructor who keeps regarding him with a half-suspicious, half-unsure-of-what-to-do-with-him glance, “I’ve been practicing yoga for years. I’m quite flexible when it comes to my legs…or otherwise.”

 

“You’ll find that the movements and rhythms of capoeira is very different from yoga, Mr. …?”

 

“Gieve,” he says helpfully, sea-green eyes glimmering with just a hint of mischief, but the auburn-haired instructor is already striding towards the stereo systems set up by the right side of the room, clearly ignoring the underlying flirtatious tone of his voice.

 

“All right, everyone, let’s start with our warm-up routine,” Isfan bellows in between the heavy beats of the drums and some kind of stringed instruments Gieve doesn’t recognize.

 

When he feels his heart beat a little harder then usual, Gieve has to convince himself that it’s the rhythmic drumming of the music and not Isfan’s topaz stare that triggers the pleasantly suffocating reaction.

 

And so it begins.

 

For the most part, Gieve can follow whatever poses and manoeuvres the class is doing – from the fundamental techniques of the dodging movement _Esquiva Lateral_ and the _ginga_ that allows him to remain in a state of constant motion as his legs shuffle back and forth with his upper body leaning forward, to the slightly trickier _Aú Fechado_ , which is similar to a cartwheel but for the legs bent in front of and over the body, making it difficult to maintain his balance.

 

Gieve has to admit, however, that wearing tight yoga pants that rides up into his more uncomfortable body crevices at the most inopportune of times – while attempting to do an _aú_ , for example – makes his initial enthusiasm about this new type of martial arts dance dwindles just slightly.

 

The quick, almost animalistic movements of the arms and legs that accompany the rough rhythm of the music are foreign to Gieve’s limbs, which has been conditioned to the gentle, yielding poses that stress on sustaining a calm mind and body rather than expressing his passion exuberantly through brisk and spirited moves that flow and burst like wild flames consuming his surroundings.

 

An hour later, Gieve finds himself covered in a light sheen of sweat that has soaked through his shirt, making the material of his yoga pants cling unpleasantly to his thighs. The muscles of his calves burn sweetly from the unfamiliar way the pressure that has been exerted on them, but he doesn’t stop – just pushes his sweat-slicked hair back and keeps going, letting the beat of the music carry him.

 

He’s not about to complain – not when he gets to observe the auburn-haired instructor from two rows back, a pleasing view of sinewy muscles and the elegant arc of his spine and shoulder blades that flex alluringly with every movement as trickles of sweat darken the material of his shirt. Tendrils of hair that escape his bun trail down and the shorter hairs curl at the nape of his neck. Despite wearing the same slack white pants as his students, somehow Gieve cannot stop noticing Isfan’s thighs and those bare, nimble feet as he performs the intricate moves that has the new student mesmerized.

 

He’d later argue with the part-time receptionist, a young college student by the name of Elam, that his intention for staring was utterly pure: “How else would I learn the steps if I’m not observing his legs, Elam?”

 

When Elam merely rolls his eyes while helping another patron sign in, Gieve murmurs in a softer voice, mostly to himself, “This is more complicated than I thought…”

 

Elam looks up, green eyes brightening in interest.

 

“–– Capoeira, I mean,” Gieve clarifies as he clears his throat.

 

“Uh-huh.” Elam grins in response, not believing a word the patron has said.

 

The one-and-a-half-hour class ends with a round of _roda_ , which Isfan invites Gieve to watch but reminds him that he need not partake. The more experienced students enter the circle two at a time to participate in a simulated combat in the form of a game as they make use of the techniques they’ve learned and practiced over the past weeks against an actual opponent.

 

“Remember, everyone: the point of this is not to knock down your opponent but to emphasize and improve your skills as an individual,” Isfan tells them as he claps along with the music and the rest of the class.

 

His smile is subtle but genuine – a hint of pride in his eyes – when he sees clearly how much his students have improved; he claps a friendly hand over their backs when they return to the edge of the circle, murmuring sincere encouragement and suggestions for improvement, and all this Gieve can observe from the sidelines.

 

Isfan is a good teacher – stern but patient when he was correcting Gieve’s poses and steps and explaining to him briefly what he was doing wrong. But what intrigues Gieve is more than just the brunet’s teaching ability; it isn’t even Isfan’s physique that draws Gieve’s immediate attention (though he’d be lying if he says he isn’t interested in that aspect of the Capoeira instructor as well).

 

Gieve enjoys a good challenge, and to the adventurous travel writer who thrives on danger and the unknown, that’s exactly what Isfan and Capoeira are.

 

After class ends and students start to filter out of the studio in ones and twos, Gieve approaches Isfan, his legs still a little unsteady from the strenuous exercise they’ve just undergone.  

 

Isfan looks up when he hears footsteps coming closer, and he straightens up to his full height, easily towering over Gieve’s slighter figure.

 

Gieve thinks the instructor may be trying to look threatening, but after seeing how he interacts with his other students, he merely glances up at Isfan with an unperturbed grin, his posture relaxed and open.   

 

Isfan’s shoulders slacken minutely when he realizes Gieve is not going to back away.

 

“Did you enjoy your first class?” he asks instead, a little warily.

 

“Surprisingly yes,” Gieve replies, and then adds with a devilish glimmer in his jade green eyes, his subtlety all but casted carelessly out of the window, “it’s all thanks to your capable teaching that I was able to pick up the movements so quickly. I think I may have fallen in love ––”

 

Isfan’s frame stiffens, his glare daring him to continue.

 

“––with Capoeira,” Gieve chuckles. “Isfan, you shouldn’t make presumptions like that; it’ll make people misunderstand.”

 

Isfan frowns, the disapproval apparent on his face and his mouth opening as if he wants to say something but decides against it in the end. Instead, he picks up his belongings with a frustrated, little “hmph” and turns for the door.

 

“Hey, wait!”

 

Isfan stops, and turns to face him again.

 

“Yes?” A hint of tension seeps into his voice.

 

“Where do I get one of those?” Gieve is referring to the green roped belt around the other’s waist. He wonders what the colour signifies but figures there’s always another time to ask.

 

“If you have serious intent to continue this class, I can bring the _Corda Crua_ for you next week,” Isfan says, and without waiting for Gieve’s reply, he steps out of the studio as swiftly as his legs would carry him.

 

“I’ll definitely be here next week then,” Gieve promises to an empty room as he watches Isfan’s retreating back.

**Author's Note:**

> Gieve is so smitten and I don’t blame him.


End file.
